


Roxy: Break

by Anonymous



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Brainwashing, Drugs, F/F, Mind Break, Mind Control, Noncon-To-Con, ambiguous genitalia, noncon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-13 19:34:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21003026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: "Roxy. Right?" Betty's voice was like a bullet through her skull. Oh god she knew her name no no no no no. She was brandishing a syringe, why? Why was the CEO of one of the world's most successful tech companies brandishing a syringe in Roxy's direction?"No. Uh. Jane. My name is Jane. Not Roxy. No idea who that is! Sorry, you must have the wrong girl."Betty just laughed.





	Roxy: Break

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ManiCrackers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ManiCrackers/gifts).

> "The Condesce makes it her personal mission to break each and every one of her prisoners. Roxy Lalonde is no different. The Condesce doesn't have to be a troll. She can pack whatever you want, too, I ain't picky."

It's too much. It's too much.

Suffice to say, Roxy was getting her lifetime's worth of regret all packed up into one moment. What did you expect her to do, _not _hack into high security Crockercorp servers when their passwords were just out in the open? Not even salted and hashed, but in straight plaintext on a place anyone could access. She was careless. She let them sniff her back. The next time she went to look with the backdoor she thought she had securely installed, they left a taunting note for her.

They goaded her. And she had too much pride as a hacker to let the challenge go unquestioned. She poked back. They poked her again. She poked back, again, and before someone could say "Cicada 3301", she woke up in a stark white room with a bag over her head. She tried to make a snarky joke about private security contractors, but there wasn't even anyone around to respond. She could only barely see the Room 101 around her through the little holes in the fabric. It was all too much.

A fuchsia pantsuit on a woman at least a foot and a decade (or more, realistically) her superior, Roxy could only barely turn her head to look at the woman entering the room. Good ol' Betty Crocker herself, technology and bakery magnate of the century. TIME's Woman of the Year for the past 20 years. Lobbyist supreme. Her details came into more stark contrast once her painted nails tugged the bag off of Roxy's head. Skin of an implacable coloration, somewhere between tan and pale. Ludicrously long hair wrapped into a braid that dangled to her hips -- how did she even manage? Roxy was staving off her terror by taking in the fine details, like her dull pink eyes, and that razor sharp grin.

The feeling of some kind of leathery material underneath her hands, strapped down firmly to the chair. It was almost like a dentist's chair, or a surgery table bent at a couple angles. Roxy strained her wrists, her heart getting faster and faster. She felt like she was going to pass out. What was going to happen to her? Was she going to get killed? Her pineal glands harvested? She was just a 21 year old IT major, she never meant to cause any of this.

This is a nightmare this is a nightmare this is a nightmare this is a nightmare this--

"Roxy. Right?" Betty's voice was like a bullet through her skull. Oh god she knew her name no no no no no. She was brandishing a syringe, why? Why was the CEO of one of the world's most successful tech companies brandishing a syringe in Roxy's direction?

"No. Uh. Jane. My name is Jane. Not Roxy. No idea who that is! Sorry, you must have the wrong girl."

Betty just laughed. "Your name is Roxy Lalonde. You live in New York City with your mom, Rose. You're trying to pass off your name as your friend, Jane Crocker. No relation. Sea? You've already gone and fucked the pooch beyond belief, girl."

Roxy remained obstinately silent. She would've crossed her arms, if she had the capability to do so. Instead, she just scowled.

"Your silence speaks way more than you'd need ta, girl."

"What are you going to do with me?" Roxy asked, trying to avoid staring directly at the sun of her harsh words.

"Well, we're always looking for the best and brightest at CrockerCorp. Consider this your interview."

"Why are you interviewing me with a syringe?"

"Good question," She said, grabbing a fistful of Roxy's hair and cramming the syringe up against her neck. Roxy felt a sharp, buzzing pain right in her veins, and then a cool sensation spreading across her body, betraying her through her veins and arteries. She cried out, only to be met with tape over her mouth. Now, the struggle was just in her own head. The CEO of Crockercorp, meanwhile, gave her an amused look and pulled over an office chair to... Watch?

Watch the helmet descend down onto Roxy's head and latch itself on. Oh. This was uncomfortable, to say the least. She could feel headphones clamping around her ears, vacuum sealing tight against them, feel the world's most advanced VR headset designed purely for destruction placed over her eyes. She'd be so excited if not for the utter fear in her heart. All consuming, all encompassing, each betraying thrum and throb pushing more of her sick medicine through Roxy's veins.

She found herself relaxing. Despite herself, as the thrumming binaural beats ricochet around her head with the force of a wrecking ball, she found herself slumping into the chair. Her muffled screams and cries turned into soft, almost pleasant gasps when the tape was so rudely ripped away from her lips. She could barely feel the pain of it. Something pricked her arm, but it was all fuzzy and nice. Everything was good.

This was comfortable. This was good and fine.

When the spasmodic disco ball lightshow played out in front of her eyes, the stunning colors quickly bringing them to heel, Roxy could only shiver. Her arms had been poked and prodded all over by something sharp and nice and comfortable. Her neck ached with something sharp and nice and comfortable. Everything was good. Everything was okay. She thought, for a moment, about the dog in the room full of fire, and then laughed. Unlike her, that dog was in actual danger, while Roxy was just enjoying the pretty light show.

Roxy couldn't see the way her body was straining and spasming every couple of seconds, trying to free itself. She wasn't experiencing continuity of thought any more. Those minutes of resistance, where her roaring intellect came back full force and she screamed and struggled to get out of her bindings, to the personal enjoyment of her captor, were gone. They happened, and then they hadn't. Had they only happened in her head? Or had they happened, and she let the memory slip away? From her point of view, she was experiencing bliss. She barely remembered where she was. She barely remembered her name. She nearly cared.

Someone put a hand on her hand. That felt lovely! She tried to turn her hand up to grab a hold of this new sensation, but she couldn't move. Why couldn't she move? Oh, well, she wasn't meant to move yet, clearly. That's what all the pretty voices and lovely words on her personal movie theater kept telling her. To stay still and relaxed. Limp like a ragdoll. Roxy thought of herself as a doll for a moment, before that latest thought was powerwashed off the surface of her brain, and she giggled. Her face felt funny and hot and sore, the drool running down onto her pajama shirt making a mess of her face.

How long had she been here? Everything was starting to blend together. An hour ago, in real time, she had forgotten that the chair existed. 15 minutes ago, she forgot that _she_ existed. The amount of objects in her perceptual set, in her solipsistic schema, was one.

Mrs. Crocker. That was all.

By the time the headset came off, a day later, Mrs. Crocker was nowhere to be seen, so Roxy simply sat on the chair, staring blankly ahead. Her body was hungry and thirsty but the sensations didn't pass through into her brain, remolded and perfected as it was. Like a muffin coming out of the oven.

Baking metaphors seemed to come so easily to Roxy now.

Even when the straps came off her arms, she didn't move an inch. Her shirt was thoroughly soaked through with drool, her face a mess with the dried stuff. It looked like she had just gotten splashed by a cup of water. Underneath her pajama pants, her panties had become a morass of her own arousal. Her legs had chafed slightly, and her body was sore with a struggle that she didn't, couldn't, wouldn't remember. Roxy stared blankly ahead, smiling vacantly, her pink eyes glittering in the light of this hall of education. Her body, lithe and attractive, was coated in a thin sheen of sweat. Most of her joints had raw red marks on them. Everything from the past day was a blur.

Everything before that was a blur too.

When Mrs. Crocker finally showed up, after two hours of waiting, Roxy was overjoyed, but didn't move, since she wasn't given the go-ahead. Instead, she let the CEO make cute cooing noises in her general direction, fancy wet wipes deployed to collect the fluids off of her skin and body. Roxy wiggled out of her clothing at Mrs. Crocker's request, since Mrs. Crocker knew best. A full wipe down, and she felt fresh and relaxed. Her body glistened and gleamed with cleanliness. Her sore limbs gave relief without giving the pain accompanying it, a sensation that could rightfully be called "orgasmic" -- but then again, for Roxy, that was a number of sensations.

"Out of the chair." Mrs. Crocker ordered, and the nude Roxy was only happy to obey. Placing down a towel, the fastidious Mrs. Crocker got on, adjusted the chair's positioning with a little remote, and then bunched her pencil skirt up (when had she changed into that? Don't think about it too hard, Roxy, thinking isn't for you, it's for people). When Roxy saw what was beneath Mrs. Crocker's clothing, she began salivating.

"Eat," she commanded.

Roxy partook.


End file.
